Archive of Our Own

It was Merlin’s third week as manservant to the king, and how he’d ever stumbled into that job, he’d never quite understand. But saving the king’s life after finding him the lone survivor of an ambush from bandits along the border of Cenred’s and Pendragon’s kingdoms, and seeing to his wounds (with a small bit of magic), dragging the man with his bare hands (and a fair bit more magic) to his Mother’s home had endeared Merlin to King Arthur -- so much that a job he didn’t want in the first place became his reward.

He picked up the king’s breakfast platter from the kitchen and got a wink from Cook. “Not late today, then?”

He gave her a sheepish smile and stole a roll, still hot from the ovens. He wasn’t late, no. Three weeks of hurried breakfasts, tepid baths and cold hearths had considerably lessened King Arthur’s generosity towards the boy who’d saved his life. The king’s perpetual huff, and his habit of muttering, worst servant ever, never failed to make Merlin’s cheeks heat. He was trying, but without the use of magic, the chores were rather harder than they were back home. Merlin had vowed to himself that he’d get it right today and with that in mind, he’d risen before the sun and would, without a doubt, be early.

As he walked the last flight of stairs, in his mind’s eye he could already see the bright smile on the king’s face, the one that lit up the whole room but rarely made an appearance. Arthur would grin, his eyes crinkling, and say, “Well done, Merlin.” Or some such. It hadn’t even been spoken but Merlin could already feel the swell of pride in his chest.

He nodded to the guards and knocked softly before pushing the door open and balancing the platter against his shoulder. He tiptoed in, wanting to set the entire meal before he roused the king.

As Merlin slid the platter onto the table, his cheeks hurt from the size of his grin. The smile faltered as he turned towards the bed. It had been a hot stretch of summer in Camelot and Merlin shouldn’t have been surprised to see only a thin sheet covering the king’s naked body – Merlin had slept the same way for weeks. The king had always been dressed by the time Merlin managed to deliver breakfast. At night, Arthur waved him off, saying he had no need for such attentions and was perfectly capable of readying himself for bed. Arthur was an intensely private person, he’d been told the day he arrived and was instructed on his duties. Merlin knew that meant he trusted no one.

The king’s eyes were shut tight, too tense at the edges for sleep, his mouth open, panting and Merlin’s mind raced to catch up with the clues. But his body knew. Even before his eyes fell to the unmistakable tent of the sheet at Arthur’s groin, and the outline of Arthur’s hand wrapped around his own erection, pumping slow and steady – even before that, heat pooled low in Merlin’s belly.

Arthur wasn’t old, not like Gaius or James in the stables, or even some of the other knights who’d gone grey at the temples. Arthur had been crowned at twenty-one, they said, and the coronation had been only a couple of years past. But the king hid his age behind chainmail and heavy cloaks, a grim down turn of his lips and the stiff set of his shoulders as he sat upon his throne.

He wasn’t old, but he had to be too old to be having a one off in his bed like a young boy, like Merlin, who was more often than not late for that very reason. His cock took that opportunity to remind him of his negligence that morning by growing heavier in his breeches.

Only a few seconds had passed of Merlin standing, dumb, watching Arthur’s hand move methodically up and down his shaft. He needed to move, yet the small dot of wetness darkening the sheet at the tip of Arthur’s cock caught and held his attention.

Enraptured, he watched the spot grow. The hand never broke its torturously slow slide up and down, up and down. Why on earth was he going so slow? Merlin could have come twice by now, and might still with the rate his own cock was pushing at his laces. He pressed it with his palm to relieve the pressure and had to bite his lip.

Arthur’s soft moan snapped him back to reality. He couldn’t be caught here. It would be his head for sure – though he’d always thought it’d be magic that placed him on the block. He scrambled for the door and cursed as his toe caught Arthur’s chair and sent it dragging across the floor. The scrape of wood on stone was deafening.

He didn’t dare look back. He fled the room, tugging his shirt out over his breeches and didn’t meet a single eye, return a single greeting – he barely managed to breathe – until he was safely back in his little room off Gaius’s chambers.

When his hand slipped into his breeches, his head knocked back against the door. He didn’t last longer than three pulls. He was grateful Gaius was not around to hear the hissed, “Sire” that echoed through his chambers as he pulsed into his hand.

The king was working through reports, head bent low at his writing desk, when Merlin re-entered his chambers mid-morning. The breakfast platter he’d carried up early was now empty and waiting to be removed. He needed to return, the room needed some tidying but perhaps if he cleared off the dishes, by the time he returned Arthur would be at court.

“My knives need a cleaning before this afternoon’s training, Merlin.” Arthur didn’t look up as he spoke, sprinkling sand on a recent signature and blowing off the excess.

Merlin bent to wrap the knives in a cloth. He’d clean them in his own room. As he rose he inhaled sharply at the feel of the king’s broad chest at his back.

“Do change the sheets, Merlin.” The king’s breath tickled Merlin’s ear as he whispered. “They’re filthy.”

Merlin squeaked and fumbled the package of knives in his hand. Arthur roared with laughter as they clattered to the floor. Merlin scrambled for them, dizzy with mortification and the warm tingle the king’s laughter had left in his belly. He’d never heard the sound before.

Arthur clapped Merlin on the shoulder, turning him around. “I was once sixteen, you know, Merlin. And I happen to remember spending that year with my hands down my breeches as often as not. Surely your innocence wasn’t shattered by your little spying session this morning?”

“No, Sire.” Merlin struggled to find the words. “It’s just that you’re –“ He refused to say old because the stocks chafed his neck. “You’re king.”

“I’m still a man.”

Merlin tried and failed not to let his eyes flicker to the king’s crotch. “But surely...”

“I have my pick of bed warmers?” Arthur provided. “You aren’t wrong. But there is always a cost to those types of arrangements, and my bedroom habits being gossip fodder annoys me.”

Merlin’s mind drifted to the chatter in the kitchens and the way Mary smugly whispered of the fine scarf Sir Kay had given her, for her hard work at polishing his sword, and how they had all snickered when Merlin had asked where she’d learned to use a whetstone.

“Regardless, the time before the sun has risen is my own. I expect to keep it that way.”

Arthur’s stern expression brokered no arguments, and Merlin bowed his head. “Yes, Sire.”

“Though I do appreciate your attempt at being on time, so I’ll forgive your mistake in judgement. Next time, I’d like my breakfast after the cock crows.”

A giggle escaped Merlin’s chest before he could suppress it.

Arthur winked, and with an amused grin, gathered his report and left Merlin to his sheet changing.

Merlin shook his head, confused at this new side of the king. Teasing, almost playful were not attributes he’d ever associated with King Arthur. He doubted many would. He opted to take care of the sheets first. He averted his eyes and tried not to think of this morning, of having to wash the stain he’d made on his own breeches, of the thoughts that had fuelled his orgasm.

Today had been the first time since he’d entered Camelot that he’d come to thoughts of King Arthur. He only hoped the fantasies that had crept into his mind this morning would disappear with the setting sun or his life was about to get awkward.

For the next week Merlin was various shades of late and Arthur was ruthless with his teasing. The twinkle of mischief in Arthur’s eye when Merlin entered a room after a loud knock only made him more nervous. The worst was attending the king’s bath for the first time.

Arthur sat with his eyes closed. The day’s training hadn’t gone well. Merlin could see it in the tension of his shoulders and the furrow of his brow. He didn’t know what to say or do to improve the king’s mood so he hovered, eyes on the hole in the toe of his boot, listening to the splash of water as Arthur trailed a wash cloth over his chest and rubbed down his aching muscles.
Merlin clenched the drying cloth in his hand and cursed ever entering the gates of Camelot, that he had to submit to the torture of being an arm’s length away from his unreasonably attractive (naked) king and not allowed to look. Then Arthur was standing and Merlin lost himself in the slow drip of water that pooled in the ripples of Arthur’s chest and clumped the downy hair into darkened curls.

“Merlin!”

Merlin was yanked from his thoughts. He blinked up to find Arthur dripping and naked, with an amused expression on his face. Merlin fumbled the drying cloth, juggling his hold until it ultimately was saved from the dirty floor by Arthur’s outstretched hand.

“You’re a right jittery thing, aren’t you? It’s almost endearing.” He rubbed the cloth across his face, then wrapped it around his waist.

Merlin held out his arm to offer a stable hold for Arthur to step out of the tub. Merlin kept his eyes averted, mostly. He looked up, counting the cracks of the ceiling – anything to resist the temptation of a peek as Arthur rubbed down his wet, naked body. He rocked back and forth on his heels, having reached twenty four cracks before Arthur chuckled.

“You amuse me, Merlin. That poor maid that gives you your first romp is going to have her hands full. She’ll have to tie you to the bed to keep you from scampering off in a panic.”

Merlin coughed, suddenly hot all over.

Arthur threw his head back and laughed, rich and throaty. The damp cloth hit Merlin’s face and he looked down in time to catch Arthur’s bare backside as he walked across the room to fetch his night shirt – which Merlin had forgotten to place by the hearth as he’d been instructed. How was he supposed to concentrate on the details when the king walked around naked?

When Arthur turned, already dressed for bed, Merlin caught himself staring again. It was hardly fair; there was something about the soft flicker of candlelight that loved the angles of the king’s face.

Arthur smirked. “What do you think of Matilda, Merlin? I saw her watching you at Thursday’s feast. I imagine she’d love to make a man out of you.”

Merlin bit his lip to stop himself from blurting out something far too honest as his brain flitted to Sir Gwaine and Sir Lancelot, who were always so kind to him – and, unlike Matilda, didn’t pinch his bottom as he passed. Though he would likely forgive them if they did.

Arthur’s eyes flicked to Merlin’s mouth and his smile softened to a sort of fond look that made Merlin’s cheeks heat. As Arthur continued to look at him, the heat travelled south and the thoughts of Gwaine and Lancelot were replaced with shimmering blond hair wrapped in a band of gold. He needed to get out of there before he embarrassed himself. He scampered backwards, aiming for the door. But he managed to trip over the bath.

As he landed arse first into the cooling water, the king’s boom of laughter was loud enough to bring the guards rushing in. He knew immediately he wouldn’t be able to walk anywhere in the castle without hearing stifled giggles for the next week.

That night when Merlin’s hand slipped under the covers, his mind drifted to Arthur’s eyes on him – tender and amused in a way that Merlin never saw the king look any other time.

He’d yet to forget the sight and sounds of the king pleasuring himself. He doubted those images would ever leave him. They certainly came to him easily now while he was trying to imitate that rhythm just to know how it felt. But it was achingly slow. Merlin was too far gone and after a few languished strokes he was already out of breath and thrusting his cock into his palm at a furious pace. He tugged and pulled as reckless and impatient as always. As his relief toppled over far too quickly, the ghost of Arthur’s laughter rang in his ears.

Merlin fell asleep that night trying to think of ways to hear that laughter, see that smile. Arthur glowed in those times he let down his guard and it made Merlin itch to have it happen again and again, though ideally without making a fool of himself in the process.

When Arthur, Leon and Gwaine entered Arthur’s chambers, Merlin was just gathering the bucket and brush to clean the hearth. It was something he’d been informed needed to be done before the weather changed, though his mother saved that messy job for when Merlin had done something incredibly irresponsible.

“Hello, Merlin.” Sir Gwaine’s eyes raked over his body and he smiled in a way that made Merlin’s neck prickle with heat.

“Sir Gwaine.” He nodded, a broad smile bursting across his face.

The king scowled at them both, bumping Gwaine’s shoulder as he walked past.

“Ah. The floor’s wet, Sire. I just finished.”

Arthur shot back a look that showed Merlin how much he didn’t care.

“Should we take off our shoes, then?” Gwaine whispered into Merlin’s ear.

“I just meant it might be slippery.”

“Ah. I heard about your little tumble into the king’s bath.” Gwaine didn’t even try to hide his smirk. “I’m sure you want to avoid anyone else having a slip.”

Merlin cringed.

“Sir Gwaine!” Arthur and Leon were already sitting at the table, papers laid out before them. “If you are quite done?”

“With Merlin?” Gwaine laughed and clapped Merlin on the shoulder. “I’d never be done of Merlin.”

“Well it’s a good thing he’s my manservant or you’d get nothing done.”

“Oh, I’d get a lot done.”

Leon coughed and his cheeks went red. Not quite as red as Arthur’s, Merlin noted.

“Enough,” Arthur snapped. “Merlin, surely you have something you should be doing.”

“Yes, Sire.” Merlin scrambled to pick up the pail, careful to avoid the rusty, jagged lip on one side that had given him more than one scratch in the last couple weeks. He knelt on the hard stone floor a few feet from the table, stuck his head in the hearth and got to work.

As Merlin scrubbed down the blackened walls, he couldn’t help but pick up snippets of the conversation behind him (when he stopped brushing and strained his hearing).

“ – tomorrow’s audience,” Leon was saying. “ – accused of sorcery.”

“Anyone harmed?” Arthur asked.

“None that I can tell.”

They went quiet again and Merlin had to go back to scrubbing before anyone noticed he’d stopped. He paused again when he heard Sir Gwaine.

“—times are changing.”

“It’s too early.” The king sighed. “They’re still not accustomed to the change to the Knights’ Code. Last week, Lord Balsworth asked when the code was to be reinstated now that I added my rabble.”

Gwaine snorted at that. It was still the talk of the castle, though it had been done a year before Merlin arrived. King Arthur had shocked everyone by revoking the Knight’s Code to allow Sir Gwaine and Sir Lancelot into Camelot’s highest honour despite their birth. James in the stables had said it was about moving out of his father’s shadow.

“They’ll drop it soon enough. Lord Balsworth is an old windbag; the court don’t listen to him half as much as they did before.”

Merlin hated Balsworth. He spoke to Arthur with an ill-concealed condescension that Merlin could not believe the king permitted. Arthur was always in a foul mood after his council. Merlin began scrubbing the back wall of the hearth with vigour. Sweat dripped down his forehead, stinging his eyes. He was practically inside the fireplace, with only his arse and his feet sticking out. He’d given up hearing anything further until Leon’s raised voice travelled over the scratch of bristles on stone.

“Sire?” Leon called out, then after a pause again, “Sire?”

Merlin stopped to look over his shoulder. Arthur’s eyes were on him as if in a daze, until he seemed to blink it away and snap his head back toward Leon.

“Speaking of getting nothing done...” Gwaine said. “Merlin, you little minx.”

“I – what?” Merlin stood, wiping his brow. He looked down at the ash covered sleeve that he’d just smeared across his face and frowned.

“Maybe you could go do something a little less distracting for us poor unwed knights.”

“Er.” Merlin looked between the three men, Gwaine amused, Leon surprised, and Arthur not meeting Merlin’s eye. He scrambled for the pail to make a quick exit, then sucked in a breath as the sharp edge caught the tender skin of his palm up to his wrist.

He stared at the blood welling up and dripping at a sudden alarming rate from his ash covered hand. “Shit.” Merlin staggered backwards, trying to hide his bleeding hand.

“What did you do?” Arthur was at his side in a blur of movement, tugging Merlin’s hand forward. Blood smeared Arthur’s tunic. “My God, Merlin. How on earth?”

Gwaine caught Merlin’s elbow as he stumbled back from Arthur’s tirade. “He’s cut himself. Maybe now’s not the time to be yelling at him.”

In a blink, Merlin was pulled from Gwaine’s hold and dragged across the room. Arthur was dunking Merlin’s injured hand into the wash bowl Merlin had just filled. The ash from his hand turned the water black; he’d have to clean that bowl again, scrub it well because that stuff was really sticking to the sides. And then refill it, of course. All before tonight, Merlin thought through his daze. The red swirled with the black specs and made his stomach roll.

The three men hovered around, staring at the bowl. Arthur was shouting again, this time at Gwaine. “If you hadn’t been shamelessly flirting with him he’d never have –“

Merlin suddenly felt claustrophobic, willing to do anything to get away, get the attention away from his silly mistake. “It’s fine. I’ll go see Gaius and –“

“And bleed all over my castle? Should I send a maid to follow you along and mop up the trail?” Arthur was pale. The initial red-faced anger had morphed into something else.

“It’s just a scratch, sire.” Leon said. “I can walk him to see Gaius. Make sure he gets there safely. Training begins in a few minutes. You go on, Gwaine and I can see to the boy.”

“But poor Merlin’s too delicate for anyone but the king’s watch, surely,” Gwaine said.

“Oi. Not a girl.” He tried to pull away from Arthur’s grip but was held fast.

“Why don’t you go get Gaius, Gwaine,” Arthur gritted out through clenched teeth.

Leon skittered out after Gwaine, saying, “I’ll get some more clean water.”

Merlin yanked his hand again. “I’m fine.”

“You are an idiot,” Arthur said and tugged Merlin into Arthur’s seat at the head of the table. He lifted Merlin’s hand to inspect it. It was a ragged sort of cut, but nothing too ominous looking. Black specks of ash were tucked into the flesh exposed by the cut, but they were quickly hidden again as the blood began to trickle down Merlin’s arm.

“Ew.”

Arthur snorted and grabbed a piece of linen from the top of the pile Merlin had folded earlier, then tore a strip off. “Gaius might need to sew it shut. But you’ll live. First battle wound.”

“I wasn’t even armed.”

Arthur looked up from wrapping Merlin’s hand and smiled, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

Gwaine arrived with more water and soon after, Leon walked in with Gaius in tow. Gaius crossed to Merlin, took one look at the blood soaking through the wrapping and told everyone to leave. To Merlin’s surprise, Arthur didn’t budge from his place behind Merlin’s chair, one hand warm and heavy on Merlin’s shoulder.

Gaius did have to sew it up, which was disgusting and quite painful. Arthur hovered, his fringe damp with sweat and his lips pressed thin. Afterwards, Gaius smiled and patted the king’s shoulder. “He’ll be fine.”

“Well, of course he will,” Arthur blustered. Then he squeezed Merlin’s shoulder and gave him the next day to recover.

Merlin might have lain in bed all day and nursed his scratch, but the snippet of conversation he’d heard earlier floated in and out of his fitful dreams. If there was to be a sorcerer accused, if the law against magic was in question, if Arthur needed to make a monumental decision, then Merlin needed to be there -- if nothing else than to see the look on Arthur’s face as he spoke about magic to know if there was any hope of ever being honest about himself.

Arthur said nothing when Merlin arrived the next day at court; only narrowed his eyes at Merlin’s hand and nodded when Merlin lifted it to show the clean bandages, waggling his fingers. He took his place behind the throne and waited for the accusation of sorcery to be brought forward.

Sir Leon didn’t test Merlin’s patience. The first person to beg audience was a peasant, a farmer with leathery skin and kind eyes. He announced in a quiet voice that he believed a sorcerer was living in a small village on the northern border. The man’s voice shook as he spoke, head bowed. “Your father decreed that any hint of magic had to be reported immediately. That not reporting even the smallest... Well, I won’t commit treason.”

Merlin stood quiet, though he wondered if all the court could hear his blood rushing in his veins like a stream after a spring thaw. Arthur, his face unreadable from Merlin’s position, motioned for the man to continue. “What did you see?”

“A man – he gave my daughter flowers. I heard him say, ‘they would never die, just like his love for her.’ And they haven’t, Sire. It has been more than two weeks and it’s as if they were picked in the last hour.”

“This alleged sorcerer,” Arthur rubbed his eyes before continuing, “is he courting your daughter?”

“Yes, Sire. We’ve known him since he was a tot. But this...” Tears were welling in the man’s eyes as he looked up at the king. “I won’t commit treason.” He opened a satchel and pulled out a bundle of small white flowers. The leaves and stems were a bright green and the petals appeared unmarred by time.

“Gaius?”

Gaius stepped forward. “There are methods, herbs mixed in the water of plants, temperature control – ways to prolong the life of cut flowers.”

“Are you saying that a flower could look like this after two weeks of being cut?”

“It is not my area of expertise, Sire, but it is possible. In theory.”

“Without magic?”

“Without magic.” Gaius bowed and returned to his place.

The heat of the morning sun had begun to fill the room. The gathered court shifted uncomfortably as they waited on the king’s next words.

“Merlin.” As Merlin stepped forward, Arthur motioned to the farmer to hand over the bundle of flowers.

Beads of sweat gathered on Arthur’s upper lip. “I will set them in my chambers that no one may tamper with them, and if after another two days there is no change, we will send knights to your village and bring the sorcerer here to stand trial for his crimes.”

Brow furrowed, Gwaine escorted the old farmer from the court, and Merlin couldn’t help but wonder what all he was missing.

Two days passed and there was no change to the flowers. Merlin checked them carefully every morning, every evening – and shot them glances while carrying out his chores as if he could simply plead with them to wilt. He’d yet to see a sorcerer brought to trial and he knew it was rare in King Arthur’s court. But Uther’s law still stood. Magic was treason and punishable by death. The next morning the king would dispatch the knights.

He didn’t know this stranger from that far away village, but a man who would use the gifts he was given to simply enchant a bunch of flowers in order to prove his love couldn’t possibly be dangerous in Merlin’s mind.

The king largely ignored the vase. He avoided looking at it even though it sat on the middle of his table.

“I think they might be wilting a bit, Sire,” Merlin lied that afternoon as he prepared Arthur for a knighting ceremony. He pulled the cloak straight and tied a bow, sneaking glances at Arthur’s reaction.

“They are not.” Arthur rolled his eyes as though Merlin had some sort of mental affliction.

“Might be.”

“Merlin.”

“Well, they might.”

“Merlin, it is not your concern.” Arthur sent him a hard look. “You’ll do well to stay out of this.”

But Merlin couldn’t. After Arthur left, he sat and stared at the flowers. If it was an enchantment, maybe it could be broken. He checked that the door was shut, then held out his hand and imagined the pretty white petals turning yellow, and curling in on themselves.

Nothing happened.

He shook his head to clear his mind and began again.

Eventually, he started whispering spells. He knew so few. Magic had always been instinctive, but he’d found a book in Gaius’s shelves, tucked between Anatomy of the Human Body and Underwater Plant Life. Merlin snuck a look whenever he could, devouring every page that unfolded the mysteries of magic.

He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to picture the pages he’d seen. He could see the spell he wanted written out beside an eerie sketch of a tree hollowed and broken. “Afeallan”

A single leaf blackened before his eyes and fell silently to the table.

“Afeallan,” he said again and then a third time, almost shouting.

He felt a surge of power stir in his chest, swirling beneath his ribs before bursting from his fingertips. He was thrown back by the force of it, knocking his chair over and landing with a sharp pain to the back of his head as he slammed into the floor. He scrambled to his knees and cried out as the shards of the shattered vase ground into his skin.

“Merlin!”

Merlin squeaked. He jumped to his feet, and turned to Arthur and Gwaine who stood in the open doorway. “Sire! I—“

He wiped at this knees, dusting off the bits of pottery. His eyes flickered to the table, trying to figure out a way to explain. The flowers were scattered over the table mixed with the broken vase, brown and heavily decayed. The leaves were black and barely more than ashes.

“I was surprised, um, to see the flowers had died. So surprised that I dropped the vase.”

Arthur crossed his arms over his chest and narrowed his eyes.

Merlin shrugged his shoulders and tried to look as innocent and young as he could possibly manage. “Oops?” he said, hoping that since the guards hadn’t yet been called, maybe Arthur was mad about the flowers and Merlin interfering, and not that he had witnessed that bit of magic.

Arthur was across the room in a blink, his finger poking at Merlin’s chest with each word. “Do you have any idea, Merlin, just how –“

Arthur stopped, bowed his head and pressed his eyes closed in a way that Merlin knew meant he was doing his best to rein in his temper.

“Get out. Just. Go see to my armour for tomorrow. You’ve certainly done enough here.”

“Sire.” Gwaine stepped forward, his voice quiet.

“No. He is reckless and irresponsible. He’s lucky he’s not being sent to the dungeons.”

There was something in the way that Arthur said dungeons that sent a chill down Merlin’s spine. He flew for the door with a quick, “I’ll be in the armoury.”

Merlin dashed through a torrent of rain to get to the armoury. It was a relief from the past week’s oppressive heat. The chill of the coming autumn was filling the air. Merlin was wet and shivering as he gathered Arthur’s armour and began his work.

They couldn’t have seen, Merlin concluded after he’d finally finished hammering out a chest plate. If Arthur knew of Merlin’s magic...

His hand shook and he dropped the chest plate, cursing at the large indent left as it hit the table edge and tumbled to the floor. He picked it up and added it back the pile. He’d need to fix it with magic if he wanted any sleep tonight -- unless this was a test to see if he used magic for his chores. His head hurt just thinking about it.

“Arthur is a complicated man.”

Merlin's heart jumped to his throat as he turned to see Sir Gwaine closing the armoury door. His thoughts from moments before felt written on his face, and he took a moment swallow his nerves and find his voice again.

“Doesn’t seem complicated. He yells for no reason and tells me to do stupid stuff for him.”

Gwaine snorted. “You see the reaction, Merlin. Not the cause.” He walked across the room to lean on a post beside Merlin’s work table. “Uther was killed before Arthur’s twenty-first birthday. A sorcerer claimed vengeance on the death of her son. Not long after, his father’s ward – who’d been raised with Arthur – ran off to live with the Druids, afraid of what would happen if the king discovered her magic.”

“What would he have done?” Merlin asked. His hands were trembling and the whetstone slipped off the blade. Merlin gasped as his hand barely avoided the sharpened edge.

“Here, let me show you how to do that properly.” Gwaine slid on the bench behind Merlin. His warm hands were suddenly over Merlin’s, guiding the whetstone down the blade. “One smooth, long stroke. Just enough pressure.”

Gwaine moved Merlin’s hand along the blade, up and down in a perfect easy slide. Merlin’s cheeks heated as the rhythm of the slow strokes became undeniably sensual. He’d never been with a man, though he understood enough to know that Gwaine’s fingers tracing lazy circles over each knuckle of Merlin’s hand was not part of the usual practice in sword sharpening. He froze, wanting to lean back and offer his encouragement but too unsure to move.

“Merlin!”

Merlin’s head snapped up, catching Gwaine in the chin. The king’s silhouette filled the doorway, his face half hidden in the low light.

“Sorry, Sire.” Flustered, he moved to soothe Gwaine’s face, brushing his hand over Gwaine’s beard. But Arthur cleared his throat, and Gwaine smirked. Merlin had no idea what he was supposed to be doing anymore. He looked down to hide his blush, shifting as far from Gwaine as the bench allowed. “Almost done, Sire.”

“Gwaine, perhaps you could find your entertainment elsewhere.” Arthur’s voice was low, warning.

Gwaine stood, rubbing his chin where Merlin’s head had knocked it. “The boy needs a bit of direction, Arthur. A bit of hand holding to make sure he doesn’t lose a limb sharpening that sword.”

“And you’re first in line, I see.”

Gwaine’s lips curled into an amused grin. “If no one else wants the job.”

Arthur’s eyes narrowed. “Merlin. After you are finished here, stop by the kitchens to tell them to ready a travel pack. Gwaine can handle training drills for a couple of days. I feel like hunting.”

“You’re going alone?”

“No, I’m going with Merlin.” Arthur raised his chin as if daring Gwaine to comment, then he turned to Merlin. “We leave after audiences tomorrow. Be ready.”

“Yes, Sire.” Merlin frowned, not looking forward to the trek in the sodden earth and not understanding Gwaine’s dark chuckle as Arthur turned heel.

They gathered in the throne room three candle marks after sunrise. The old farmer from two days before stood before the king. The trembling of his hands made Merlin look away.

Rain thrashed against the windows of the great hall, seeming to beat down on the tempers of the room as they awaited the king’s judgement. When the last of the court had settled, Arthur rose. At the flick of the king’s fingers, Merlin jumped forwards, a box in his outstretched hands. Arthur reached in and grabbed one of the few flowers that had wilted rather than blackened.

“Your daughter’s flowers have died.”

The man’s eyes grew wide. He took a step back as though he feared punishment for the false accusation.

“I do not believe there will be any knights accompanying you back to your village.”

“Sire?”

“She and her suitor have my blessing. I see no reason to suspect sorcery.” Arthur looked up at Gaius for a moment. “Only a talent in the horticultural arts. Please tell him for me that I hope he will use those talents to make your village happy and prosperous.”

“Thank you, Sire. Thank you.” The farmer’s eyes shone as a smile burst forth from his face. “He is a good man. A very good man. I only feared –“

“It is understandable. I wish you a safe journey home.”

The man bowed once and then again, muttering his gratitude still as he exited the hall.

As the morning wore on, Merlin cursed the continued rain. What made Arthur need to be away from the castle in this weather, he couldn’t fathom. But he’d reminded Merlin twice that they were to set off immediately after the morning audiences. Merlin couldn’t imagine a flood would change his mind now.

A few pressing matters were brought before Arthur, but Sir Leon seemed to know that the king was in a hurry to be elsewhere. By mid-day the rain had ended, the room had been cleared and Merlin was sent off to the kitchens to retrieve their provisions.

The wood was wet. The ground, his knees, his arse, his tunic were sodden. But worst of all the wood was wet. He cursed as he stacked the twigs and grass inside the stone circle. Behind him was the snap and slick slide of Arthur preparing the couple rabbits he’d caught. But the wood was wet.

At least the rain had stopped. He looked up at the sky, wondering if a bolt of lightning would help the pathetic state of his campfire.

Arthur dropped the two carcasses at Merlin’s feet and eyed the stick in Merlin’s hand.

“It’s too wet, Sire.”

Arthur shrugged. “You’ll think of something, I’m sure.” He disappeared toward the stream to wash his hands and Merlin scowled at his back.

“You can think of something,” Merlin mimicked. As soon as Arthur’s figure disappeared completely into the shadows, Merlin held out his hand and whispered, “Forbearnan.”

The flame caught, burning high, bright and suspicious. Merlin threw some wet grass on it to dampen the size. The two rabbits were spitted and turning when Arthur returned.

He said nothing of the fire, as though he’d expected no less. Merlin wished he hadn’t dampened the fire, just to see the impressed look that would fall on Arthur's face. Even if it would quickly change to outrage.

“Why did you come here, to Camelot?”

Merlin halted his turning of the spit in surprise. He looked up, but Arthur’s head was bent, focused on whittling a branch into a spear.

Merlin remembered the unexpected offer, the beautiful man he’d so painstakingly nursed back to health one morning rising from bed, testing his strength then admitting he was King Arthur of Camelot. Merlin’s mother said the court physician was an old friend and he’d look after Merlin, that he was given gifts for a purpose and that destiny was meant to be followed. He kept that to himself, though.

“My mother said you weren’t your father and told me to pack my bag.”

“I’m not.” There was such a seriousness to Arthur’s look, as if he were reminding himself as much as Merlin. “I’m not him, nor do I share all of his beliefs, Merlin.”

Merlin bit his lip, unsure what to say, what to do with that information. He focused on turning the spit. The flames flickered beneath their dinner; the raw flesh bubbled and darkened under the intense heat. It made Merlin’s blood run cold.

“Tell me, Merlin,” Arthur said, raising the spear to Merlin. “How do you make sodden wood catch fire when I have the only flint?” He held out the stone to Merlin.

Merlin’s mouth went dry. “I—“

“Merlin.”

Merlin closed his eyes. When he opened them, Arthur was still staring, not angry – but demanding.

“Don’t lie to me.”

Merlin nodded, and with his heart pounding in his throat, he held out his hand and whispered the spell. The tip caught in a ball of flame as if it’d been wrapped in wine-soaked cloth.

Arthur blinked like someone might when they open the shutters on a winter morning to find a blanket of snow, expected and still surprising. After a pause, he asked, “Did you save my life using sorcery that day?”

“Just a little!” It had only been a cut on Arthur’s leg that wouldn’t stop bleeding until Merlin had pressed his hand to it and just willed it closed in his desperation.

Arthur’s face glowed in the reflected light, his eyes bright and thoughtful as he watched the flame. “Did you know who I was?”

“No!”

Arthur nodded, a grim downturn of his lips. “Not many sorcerers would have saved the son of Uther Pendragon.”

“I would have.”

“That’s why you’re here.” Arthur’s hand rose, palm out, inching towards the burning tip of the spear as if testing the heat of conjured fire. “The knife that killed my father was meant for me. A son for a son, the old woman had said that day in the courtyard after her son was executed. Only she didn’t count on the king sacrificing himself for his heir.”

The crackling of the fire was the only sound in the quiet night as Arthur paused and Merlin’s mind raced.

“Shortly after my father was killed, a sorceress lured me from Camelot. She granted me one wish: to see my mother. My mother told me the truth of her death. My father had struck a bargain, my mother’s life for a son. When she died, he turned against magic.” Arthur dug into the soft earth with his knife, burrowing it into a shallow hole. “He’d never told me why he hated magic so much. Only that magic was irrefutably evil, no good ever came from it.”

Merlin struggled to find the words to say to Arthur that he was proof that magic produced things that were good, but he stopped himself. Either Arthur had figured that out by now, or he hadn’t.

“When I took the throne, I was young. The court was filled with those loyal to my father and not me. Things are changing, but I have to tread carefully. It will take time to change the laws against magic my father put in place. The entire kingdom lives in fear.”

“I know.”

“But I will change things. I’m not him.”

Merlin let that hang in the air. He removed the rabbits in silence, hissing at the sting of his fingers as he tried to push them from the spit. He presented the king a skin of wine and the meal cooked by sorcery. Arthur smiled and twisted the spear into the hole he’d made so it stood by them like a torch.

Merlin joined him on the log they’d dragged over from the underbrush and he sat closer than necessary, maybe in a futile offer of comfort, but it felt right, felt welcome. By the time it had begun to rain again and they’d scrambled for shelter in the tent, Arthur’s mood had lightened. He barked a laugh as Merlin lost his footing on the wet ground, covering himself in mud from head to foot.

Merlin opted to jump in the stream to clean off. When he returned to the tent, Arthur was already in his bedroll and Merlin’s bedroll had been dragged over to lie directly beside him. Merlin shivered in his dripping clothes, unsure what to do next.

“The temperature’s dropping. We’ll need to keep warm as best we can,” Arthur said. “You’d better not be thinking of sleeping in those wet things.”

“No, Sire,” Merlin said, and he breathed a sigh of relief when Arthur chuckled, blew out the lantern and turned over to give him some privacy.

He stripped quickly, laying out his clothes in the hope they might dry by morning or he’d have to figure out a drying spell before they headed back. He dove under the thin blanket unsure how close he should get to the king while naked, but unable to resist inching closer to the heat. Arthur solved the dilemma by shifting so their sides pressed together.

After a moment’s painful silence, Arthur spoke. “Sir Gwaine would have you, Merlin. You know that, right? If you were so inclined.” His voice was low, barely over a whisper, and choppy like he was unsure if he should be speaking at all. “He’s an honourable man, he’d treat you well.”

Merlin almost said nothing. It didn’t really require an answer, but it felt wrong to let it sit between them when the king had shown him so much trust already that evening. He chose his words carefully, but tried to make them light. “I prefer my current position, actually.” The honesty of the words made his skin feel so hot that despite the earlier chill, he felt like he might burst into flames.

“I’m not talking about being his manservant, Merlin.”

“I know.” He turned over and buried his face in the crook of his arm and prayed Arthur would let it drop before he truly made a fool of himself.

“What about Matilda?”

Merlin replied, voice thick with emotion, “Sire, you have your answer.”

As he drifted off, he felt the delicious weight of an arm wrap across his back.

Merlin woke slowly through the haze of a frantic, heated dream. His hand was already on his cock and his hips were rocking steadily against the firm heat at his back. He blinked awake as he remembered where he was, who he was with, and what he’d essentially admitted the night before.

The tent was chilled with the night air but the arm curled over his chest was heavy, holding him tight. He and the king were pressed together, front to back. And Merlin was very hard and very naked. This was going to end up more humiliating than the bath incident.

“Tell me what you were dreaming about.” The words poured into his ear like honey, and Merlin’s embarrassment morphed into something warm and pleasant, settling in his groin.

Merlin must have been still half asleep or under some magic from waking up in the king’s arms, because his mouth began to move without his permission. “Dreaming about you. About that morning. How you touched yourself.”

Arthur kissed his shoulder and rocked forward so that Merlin felt the stiff brush of Arthur’s erection along his thigh. “Tell me what you want.”

“Show me.” Merlin swallowed. “I want you to show me how you touch yourself. The way you did that morning, so slow.”

Merlin had to squeeze the base of his cock to stave off his orgasm. Already, he was on the edge with the king’s solid body pressed to his back, his breath tickling Merlin’s ear and his lips grazing Merlin’s neck. Sweat prickled on his flushed skin as Arthur moved, his fingers creeping along Merlin’s side, inch by inch. Merlin had to grit his teeth to stop himself from squirming, stop from commanding the king to move faster, stop teasing.

But there was no rushing this. Merlin figured even if he tried, he’d get nothing but a chuckle and the horror of knowing he’d made Arthur move even slower for his troubles. Arthur thumbed along his ribs as if counting each to make sure none were missing. The smooth metal of Arthur’s ring dipped and rose through the hills and valleys.

“You need to eat more, Merlin. You’re as tall as a weed and there’s nothing to you.”

Merlin had always been awkward, too thin and too clumsy, his ears the first thing anyone noticed. All too aware of his shortcomings, he tried to shift away from Arthur's touch.

Arthur’s thick arm dwarfed Merlin’s as Arthur laid one on top of the other, holding him close like he didn't mind Merlin's wiry body pressed against his own even if it made Merlin feel like nothing but skin and bone in the frame he’d barely grown into.

“I could snap you with one blow.” Arthur’s teeth closed on a muscle in Merlin’s neck. His fingers were at Merlin’s navel just tickling the patch of hair that led downwards.

Merlin squirmed, barely breathing. “Sire, please.”

“How much power do you have hiding in this willowy body?” Arthur’s hand slipped further down. His knuckled grazed the tip of Merlin’s cock and Merlin almost saw stars, but Arthur was fast when he wanted to be. He squeezed the base in a tight ring before Merlin could tip over into orgasm. “Enough to not need a rusty old bucket to clean a hearth?”

Merlin whimpered and tried to rock into the hold, but Arthur was having none of it. He exhaled and tried to calm himself as he let Arthur’s question filter into his brain. He wondered which answer would get Arthur moving, and decided on the truth.

“I could take you with less than one blow, Sire,” Merlin ground out through clenched teeth.

“Could you?” Arthur sounded amused at the thought.

“And I’m quite tempted to at the moment,” Merlin snarled, thrusting his hips as best he could.

Arthur barked a laugh into Merlin’s shoulder. “I bet you are. Now be still.” All the lightness left Arthur’s tone at the last command. The words were curt and low, like the orders he issued before the court – those that weren’t up for discussion. “You asked me to show you something. And I can’t if you don’t hold still.”

Merlin huffed, but stilled the best he could, pressing his eyes shut to concentrate on not moving. This was one lesson he wanted to remember every detail of.

“Some things aren’t a race.” The tight ring of Arthur’s finger and thumb eased and Arthur slid his hand up, feather-light in his grip, and back down again. “When you have time – in the quiet of the morning before the castle awakens and before your duties begin to lay heavy on you – you can be patient. Explore.” He moved his hand down to touch Merlin’s balls in a rough sort of pull that Merlin had never thought to do. The pain-laced pleasure shot through him in a complex way he wanted to feel again.

“Oh.”

“Yes.” Arthur’s voice was so deep, a rumbling purr that vibrated in the space between them. “Go slow. Enjoy yourself.” Arthur palmed the head of Merlin’s cock then slid his thumb along the sensitive slit.

There was a flash of light and through the crack in the tent flap Merlin saw the campfire burst into life. That was me and I’m coming sludged through the thick fog of Merlin’s brain. With a breathless, “Ah! Sorry,” he arched and trembled.

Beneath the blanket, Arthur’s hand was getting coated; Merlin could feel the wet slide of Arthur pumping him still. The fantastic feel of being held through an orgasm mooted the embarrassment of having so little control.

Arthur waited until Merlin had calmed and the tremors had left him before letting go and shifting just enough to take his hand upon himself. Merlin could feel Arthur behind him, his come-wet fist hitting Merlin’s bare arse with each up stroke. He wasn’t sure what to do, offer to help or wait for direction. His mind flickered to a few of the stories he’d heard around the campfire in Ealdor, about the pleasure men could give each other that went beyond hand and cocks. They made him flush and together with the slick slap of flesh at his back he was already half-hard again. He saw himself pressed on his hands and knees with Arthur rutting behind him, or on the king’s huge bed and spread out to be taken like a girl. He thought about when they returned to Camelot, maybe whispering to Arthur that they could, if he wanted. Merlin was sure he could be persuaded.

Behind him, Arthur didn’t take his time. It was a fast, furious rhythm and then he was groaning and breathless, pressing his forehead to Merlin’s back while a hot splash hit his arse. “Merlin, what you do to me.”

Merlin stretched his arm back. He could reach the top of Arthur’s thigh, and he clung to it. He knew now how it felt to be held through an orgasm. It was only right that Arthur wasn’t alone.

Later, when Arthur left the tent without a stitch of clothing, he bent to inspect the campfire -- which still burned brightly, though there was no wood. Apparently, reducing someone to spontaneous bursts of magic during orgasm was a source of pride for Arthur because when he turned to Merlin, he looked far too pleased with himself.

Merlin rolled his eyes and dashed to the stream, opting to take the king’s lead and forgo clothes.

“That good, really?” Arthur asked, dipping into the water next to Merlin and stealing a glance back at the fire.

Merlin blushed. “Happens every time,” he lied then swiped at the water to send a splash across Arthur’s chest.

Arthur shouted in overly dramatic outrage, as Merlin knew he would, and soon they were trying to dunk each other like children.

Merlin stopped to catch his breath and watched as Arthur threw his head back, his laugh loud and booming in the quiet woods. Water droplets clung to his chest. Behind him the sunrise caught the gold of his hair, making it shimmer.

Perhaps this was what destiny felt like, Merlin thought; bright and fresh and full of promise.